I’m the kind of guy who appreciates a clean neighborhood. After lacing up my maximum support hiking boots I pulled my socks up to my knees, cinched down my sunhat and hit the streets. The lenses of my prescription glasses quickly darkened as the sun’s harsh UV rays penetrated the earth’s protective ozone layer. I pulled a trash bag and a pair of rubber gloves out from my cargo vest and began to pick up litter from around my condo complex. My dream is to one day become head of the HOA so it’s important to lead by example.
At first, the trash was your typical variety; flattened soda cans, plastic bags and construction debris that had blown over from the new row of condos being built in the adjacent subdivision. Then, right there, on the sidewalk in front of unit 24B I saw it; the butt end of a reefer joint.
Astonished, I stood frozen in my tracks, mind racing. Snap out of it! I thought to myself and I quickly ran to my garage in unit 12A. I grabbed four bright orange safety cones and rushed back to the location of the used reefer joint. I blocked off an eight-foot radius around the paraphernalia and dialed my phone.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I found the butt of a used reefer.” I replied, “I have secured a perimeter around the substance and will maintain watch until your officers come and take jurisdiction of the crime scene.”
“A reefer?” Asked the feminine voice. Must be a rookie, I chuckled to myself. “Yes, a reefer is a street term for marijuana molded into a cigarette.” I calmly explained. I had taken an online course on identifying street drugs several years earlier. There was a pause at the other end of the line before she responded; “Ok, just throw it away then.” With a sly smile and a small laugh I said, “No honey, this is marijuana, an illegal drug. Let me talk to one of your superiors, they’re going to want to hear this.” After a momentary pause, the phone hung up. I looked at my phone, stunned. I was about to call back, thinking that maybe my cheek had pressed against the end call button, when it occurred to me what had really happened.
Some months prior I had seen a startling Vice documentary on the Mexican drug cartel. The cartel had probably infiltrated further north than I had realized. The police were likely up their necks with the drug epidemic already. There probably were not enough men to contain the brutality of a Mexican drug war, let alone take on smaller, yet equally important, cases like mine. Our nation’s first responders and frontliners were doing their best, but it was time for me to pick up where they had left off.
One of the side effects of being high on Marijuana is paranoia, so I didn’t want to startle the perpetrator if he was still around. I needed to set up a stakeout. I retrieved my gardening supplies and began pulling weeds from the flower garden next to unit 24B. After a time a young boy, roughly 12 years of age, caucasian, blonde hair, came out of the front door. I recognized him as Johnny Sullivan. As an aspiring HOA leader, it’s important to know all of the tenants by name.
“What are you doing in Mrs. Sanderson’s garden, Mr. Kolasch?” he asked.
“Oh, just weeding.” I said as I pulled a handful of flowers out of the garden, I had run out of weeds to pull about 20 minutes ago. Mrs. Sanderson was a very attentive gardener. “Where are you headed?” I asked.
He looked at me quizzically, “just heading to the skatepark. See ya later.” With that, he hopped on his scooter and rode away.
Hmm, the skatepark, I thought, as I ripped out another fistful of tulips. Slowly and steadily it dawned on me. Of course!
When the city had proposed the original plans for a skatepark I had known from the start that it would be bad news. Skateparks are notorious for being gathering places for dopers and dropouts. When I was in high school my cousin had a friend who skateboarded at the skatepark. Rumor had it that he huffed pot there one time and died later that night. Cardiac arrest. I had vehemently opposed the construction but my opposition had fallen on deaf ears. Now I would have to be the one to deal with the fallout.
When I arrived at the skatepark the next day it would have been hard to believe that I wasn’t a real skater. My hair, gelled into numerous spikes, stood defiantly against the cool morning breeze. The dazzling sun was effectively dulled behind my small, form-fitting Oakleys. I had shaved a goatee and donned a sterling silver chain necklace. My feet were sheathed by a pair of stiff and densely padded white Etnies while my legs were covered by baggy Dickies that would give the impression that I might be “holding.”
I rolled over to the top of the ramp where a group of scooter…ers were standing.
“Sup dog.” I said to one of the kids, slapping him five. This signaled that I was cool. A silence fell over the group, their helmeted heads avoiding eye contact with me.
“Is the park scooting well today?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess.” The kid said awkwardly. The group started scooting away but I grabbed one child by the arm and pulled him aside before he could follow suit.
“I’m looking for Mary Jane,” I said, “have you seen her?”
“What…No…?” He stammered as he looked at me with confusion and fear. I let him go with disgust, he wasn’t the kingpin I was looking for.
At the other end of the park there was a group of BMX cyclists loitering around a lowered matte black Honda Civic with a spoiler. On the rear windshield was a sticker that, in large white cursive letters, read “Squat Life.” This group was slightly older than the scooter crowd, they looked to be in high school. “Just play it cool.” I thought to myself as I approached the cyclists.
“This your ride?” I asked with a casual nod towards the automobile.
“Yeah.” Responded one of the bicyclists.
“Ever drift it?” I asked, inspecting the spoiler. I’ve seen the entire Fast and the Furious franchise 4 times so I guess you could say that I’m a bit of a gearhead.
“Yeah, a couple of times but my Dad got pissed so I’m mostly into racing now.” said the kid. A gold chain dangled from his neck, a stiff Obey hat perched atop his head.
“You guys ever hash up?” I queried smoothly. “I’m looking to buy a couple keys.” Key is short for kilogram.
“Nah man, we don’t do that anymore. Honestly, after Astroworld we’ve found it really difficult to support the American Cannabis industry. You can hit this vape though, it’s just tobacco. Peach cobbler flavor, it’s so fire.” I was aware of the Surgeon General’s stance on vaping but I didn’t want to blow my cover. Besides, it was not illegal for a 44 year old man to vape tobacco, it was just disgusting, really dumb looking and extremely detrimental to one’s health. I decided to play it cool. I inhaled the noxious vapor and exhaled a cloud that would have given hurricane Katrina survivors PTSD. I bid the cyclists farewell and carried on my way.
I spotted a group of skateboarders by a flat bar. Jackpot.
“‘Sup?” I said as I rolled over, presenting a casual five for slapping.
“Not much, just enjoying the weather.” responded one of the young men as he reciprocated five. Just enjoying the weather? That must be code, I thought, but none of my news outlets had prepared me for this lingo. I had to dig deeper.
“The weather is totally nice these days isn’t it?” I said with a wry grin, signaling that I was hip to his slang.
“Definitely,” He said as he smoked a vaporizer, “you want to hit this?” He stretched out his hand and offered me his vaporizing device. My mouth still had the discomforting after taste of mechanical breakfast cereal, but I couldn’t blow my cover yet. I had to gain their trust.
“What flavor is this?” I asked, taking the device.
“Maui Waui.” The skater answered. Nice, tropical flavor, I thought to myself. I love a good coconut or papaya. I inhaled deeply and exhaled a cumulonimbus that would have sent island inhabitants running for higher ground. I reached over and handed the kazoo-like contraption back. Poor kid must have bought a defective product. The taste was much more akin to sour moss than it was to a tropical Skittle medley.
I was about to ask if the young man ever listened to the Doobie Brothers when I was stopped dead in my tracks. It really was a beautiful day. The weather really was totally nice. I looked on, awestruck, as the skateboarder who had shared his vapor with me executed a maneuver that sent shockwaves of astonishment through my cortex. Tender meringue clouds bathed luxuriously in a blueberry jam sky as skateboarders all around me performed feats that seemed to bend the laws of physics. Surely we must be verging upon quantum theory, I thought to myself.
My eyes, as if periscopes protruding from my submarine head, turned mechanically and observed style, grace and athletic prowess that had previously been reserved for great Russian ballets. Some young men around me moved as black jungle cats, hunching on powerful haunches before boldly pouncing upon an obstacle. Shedding the cloak of night, unabashedly hunting in daytime. Others flowed effortlessly on clouds of marshmallows, popping from mallow to mallow, the climax of their performance resulting in a smooth, stream of caramel. Some skaters practiced their craft as jazz musicians. Cool, calculated but with the freedom for creativity in the purple spaces between notes. Slowly a tear formed in my eye. The beauty that these skateboarders were producing was dumbfounding There are no drug kingpins here, I thought to myself. Everyone here is love. Everyone is love. We are all love.
